Claire's Ghost Part 2 ...Channeling Her Wise Self
― Haruki Murakami
Claire
“I still love you,” Claire’s ghost says wistfully, gazing into the flames.
I like it here. Leaded windows, the scent of old leather, the bitter, acrid smoke from the fire.
“You’re not here—you’re some figment of my imagination.”
“Really? Then why are you talking to me?”
“Because I like to dissociate.”
I stop and stare at her helplessly. “I don’t know—maybe I just like to stare at you.”
“We could have been good together.”
A memory surfaces—Claire caught between classes in a rainstorm. She comes into the lounge, tosses her wet things into a heap and runs off to her lecture.
I hang up her form in the shape of her raincoat, draped over a chair and worship before it, a crumpled mass of need.
“Can’t I just say sorry and we move on?”
“It doesn’t work that way.”
“But you just got through telling me you’re real,” I moan.
She looks sad and shrugs. “I am real but I’m her spirit, not her conscious mind. She has volition, you know, and right now she’s being stubborn.”
“Okay,” I shout, exasperated, “You know her and must have been through this before. How long do these bouts of anger or resentment last?”
“Ah, but who said it was either of those? You did hurt her you know.”
I throw up my hands in mock surrender. “Guilty as charged. Answer my question. How long until she gets over it?”
She frowns and looks off into space.
“Well, let’s see. One boy hurt her very deeply when she was thirteen—I don’t think she ever got over that.”
My jaw drops. “Has she ever gotten over anything?”
“She doesn’t process hurts very well."
“Well, can you at least talk to her?”
“I can’t do that.”
“Why the hell not?”
“Because you hurt her so much, I’ve split off from her. She doesn’t even know I’m here.”
I throw up my hands in a gesture of surrender.
“Oh great, I’m being haunted by a living ghost of a woman who doesn’t even know she’s haunting me.”
She smiles. “Something like that.”
I stare at Claire’s phantasm and blink at her beauty. I know what I want to say. I want to tell her the truth—the truth she’ll never get to hear.
I never understood you—not once. I never misunderstood you—I just lacked awareness.
I pour myself another double scotch and next thing I know, I’m out.—dead to the world asleep.
I wake up the next morning, stiff and out of sorts, but remember it’s Friday. I get to see the real Claire tonight at the Weekly Wind Down at Sweetwater’s.